


3 Times Drugged Sherlock Molests People (+ 1 Time He Goes All the Way)

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugged Sex, Drugged Sherlock, Dubious to totally non-con, Explicit Sexual Content, Greg doesn't know how to handle it, Jim's content to go along, John refuses to, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft can never forget it, Pushy Bottoms, Recreational Drug Use, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock is despicably rapey, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:32:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out Sherlock's asexuality disappears with the first kiss of the drug, and god help anyone in his path.</p><p>In which Sherly tries to feel up our favourite Baker Street boys and eventually gets his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3 Times Drugged Sherlock Molests People (+ 1 Time He Goes All the Way)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this today and barely proof-read, so please excuse any mistakes/lameness. Just a quickie.

**1.**

He’s slumped in a doorway when Greg finds him, staring up at the flickering neon sign for a nearby deli. His face is very pale, thinner than it should be, hair unkempt and dirty around it. His clothes are nice though, not a speck of grime on them anywhere and damn expensive. Greg gets closer, wary of a bad reaction.

“You alright there?”

The man’s head tilts slowly, so slowly Greg expects it to creak. He runs glistening blue eyes over the detective sergeant, the pupils wide and eerie.

“Did you know your wife’s cheating on you?”

Lestrade’s brows shoot up. “What’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“And what are you on right now, Mr Holmes?”

“My seven per cent solution.”

Greg pinches the bridge of his nose. There’s nothing worse than trying to get straight answers out of a junkie. Even his name sounds ridiculous.

“Do you have any ID?”

“Pocket.”

Greg just stares for a moment until he realises the guy either can’t get it or seriously won’t. Still being careful he crouches and rifles through his coat, pulling out a wallet. It’s mostly empty but there are several cards with _S Holmes_ on the bottom.

“It’s your brother, by the way.”

“Come again?”

“She’s sleeping with your brother.”

A wave of shock and hesitation hits Greg, but as soon as Sherlock says it he knows it’s true. The signs were there, and he’s not actually a bad detective. He pushes down the urge to vomit or punch a wall and focuses on the young man instead.

“How did you know that?”

“Your tie’s crooked but not from any struggle and no one told you when you left the house – you’re wearing a wedding ring, so obviously married yet she didn’t take the time to let you know. Clearly on the rocks then. Your jacket’s too big for you, worn in the elbows, clearly a hand-me-down of some kind so brother’s. You haven’t had it long because it’s still creased where his elbows are instead of yours. There’s a particularly strong scent of perfume that you haven’t seemed to notice, so it must be the same as your wife’s and you’ve assumed it got there since the time he gave it to you – something he must have done out of guilt, since the gift is so recent. There’s also a lipstick smudge by the collar, and I doubt a woman who doesn’t notice her husband’s tie spends much time near his neck.”

 

Lestrade stares, mouth agape. This stranger, totally strung out in a doorway, sees more in five seconds than he’s done in six months.

“That was amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“Can you always do that sort of thing?”

“On anyone, anywhere, any time.”

“What else have you got?”

Sherlock starts describing the origin of every scar on Greg’s hands, starting from where he caught it on a nail when he was five up til the paper cut he got last week. Lestrade listens in awe, his amazement making him drop his guard until without knowing it he’s leaning in close, legs touching Sherlock’s.

“That’s fucking fantastic,” He laughs, “We could use more men like you at the Yard.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow suddenly. “They won’t let me help them.”

“Then they’re crazy.”

Something changes in the addict’s face. The brief excited eagerness of his deduction process fades back into the dreamy look he’d had when Greg found him. Finding a sudden lack of response, Greg clears his throat uncomfortably.

“I’m uh, sorry, I mean I still have to take you in.”

“Would you?” Sherlock looks at him sidelong, voice lower than before.

Suddenly he’s pressing Greg back against the door frame, scrambling into his lap before the detective can react. Greg’s fit enough but Sherlock’s taller and surprisingly strong, possibly boosted by the drug. He pins Greg’s hands to the brick before he can reach either gun or radio, leaning in to sniff his neck.

“You’re assaulting a member of the Metropolitan Police Force! Let go right now!”

“Assaulting? Oh no no no, I was rather hoping it would be the other way round.”

Greg blanches. “Are you having a crack?”

“Come on, sergeant,” his tone is sultry enough to give Greg tingles, his mouth so close to his ear, “I’m sure we can delay that trip to the station a few minutes.”

One hand keeps him pinned while the other trails towards Greg’s belt and the sergeant gasps. This isn’t happening. He’s not letting a perp wank him off in a dirty alley like some kind of corrupt movie cop. But as he pushes against Sherlock’s frame to no effect, he starts to worry that might be the case.

“Look, you don’t wanna do this. It will make things a lot worse for you later.”

“Come on, Sergeant Lestrade. I can tell you’ve done this before. Why don’t we stop pretending?”

 

He’s right about Greg’s past, but at this point it doesn’t surprise him. He wracks his brain for something, anything that might convince him to stop. Sherlock’s hand dips behind his waistband and Greg’s about to cry for help when he gets an idea.

“Would you like to have a look at some of my unsolved cases?”

Sherlock’s fingers immediately still. He looks up, blinking as though he doesn’t quite believe it.

“You’d let me assist?”

“Sure.”

“Could I see actual evidence? Or at least photos.”

“Sure, yeah, whatever you need. You just have to let me take you to the station and clear this up first.”

Sherlock pouts thoughtfully, but his grip has loosened and Greg can tell he’s not even thinking about him anymore. He stands abruptly. “Let’s go.”

 

It’s something they never talk about when Sherlock sobers up, and Greg’s half-convinced he doesn’t remember (except he’s Sherlock and he remembers everything).

 

**2.**

John walks up the stairs with a healthy amount of dread. They haven’t had a case in six weeks. Six _weeks_. His flatmate has been driving him insane for the past four. He’s taken to spending a lot of time at Harry’s, because even with the general depressing atmosphere at least there’s no one throwing things or shooting the furniture.

He walks into the living room half expecting to find Sherlock’s burned a hole in the ceiling or spray painted the windows, but instead the detective’s lying on the floor by the fire making carpet angels, arms moving at a snail’s pace.

“Um, hi.”

“John.” He answers without looking away from the flames.

“How’s everything?”

“Booooooooring.”

He giggles and John raises his brows. “Uh, okay.”

He gets closer. Sherlock’s in one of his tight shirts but it’s untucked. He starts stroking the fabric over his chest and John frowns.

“Can I ask what you’re doing without getting called an idiot?”

“Sure.”

He waits but Sherlock doesn’t explain.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m feeling the imperfections in the weave.”

“It’s an £800 shirt Sherlock, I doubt there are imperfections.”

“There are, feel them.”

His hand lashes out and grabs John’s wrist, yanking him down to one knee as he presses the doctor’s hand to his chest.

“See?”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!”

His anger fades as his flatmate looks surprised at the shouting. He peers into Sherlock’s eyes, grabbing his chin to get a better look.

“You’re high!”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are, you never lie that badly when you’re sober! Jesus Sherlock!”

“Would you mind keeping your voice down a bit?”

“What did you take?”

“The usual.”

“What’s that?”

Sherlock makes an annoyed face. “Really John, I know you’re a doctor but I’m quite capable of medicating myself without overdosing.”

“I’m taking you for a blood sample right now.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“Sherlock, if you won’t tell me what you took I have no choice! Would you rather I call Mycroft?”

He sighs, a long low wistful sounds that comes from the pit of his stomach.

“Cocaine.”

John sits back on his heels. That’s not so bad. And Sherlock is a lot calmer. Provided he can find the stash and destroy it before the detective comes to, there shouldn’t be a problem. He’s definitely going to tell Mycroft though – and ask him to clarify a bit of that mysterious history everyone always hints at.

 

He’s so busy thinking about what he needs to do that he doesn’t notice Sherlock’s hand creeping up the leg of his pants until a cold hand flattens against his calf.

“God, your hands are freezing! Get off.”

“I don’t want to.” Sherlock whines.

“Well too bad.”

Sherlock sits up huffily, dropping his hand as requested. But he leans in and runs it along John’s cheek instead.

“John, has anyone ever told you there’s a city in your eyes?”

“What?”

“All those pathways and junctions...it’s like a great blue metropolis.”

“If you say so.”

Sherlock suddenly lunges, pressing their lips together viciously. John jerks his head back, shuffling on his arse across the carpet, but the taller man just follows.

“Cut it out, you prat!”

“What’s the matter?” he frowns, genuinely confused by the look of it, “Don’t you like me?”

“Yeah I do, but not like that and certainly not now.”

Sherlock advances, backing John against the couch. He leans in and clutches at the doctor’s shirt over his chest as he tries to kiss him again.

“Sherlock, I said stop it!”

“Don’t want to.”

John rolls his eyes. “Right then. You leave me no choice.”

The next time Sherlock tries to press his lips to John’s jaw, the blond headbutts him. Sherlock reels back in shock and John jumps on him, hauling the younger man to his feet with his hands trapped behind him.

“John, what are you doing?”

“Putting you to bed.”

“Oh yes please.” Sherlock chuckles.

“Not like that.”

“Boo!”

John half-carries, half-drags Sherlock down the hall and pushes him inside, chest heaving. The detective flops back on the mattress looking daggers at him but his hands are distracted by his covers now, making the same sweeping motions.

“Stay here or I will bolt the bloody door shut.”

“You’re no fun.”

“You might thank me in the morning.” John slams the door.

 

He doesn’t, of course, because he’s Sherlock.

 

**3.**

Jim’s terribly, terribly bored. This party is the key location for his plan, but it’s full of awful people and bad canapés. He wanders freely, not even attempting to look amused, listening to Sebastian’s commentary in his earpiece.

“Forty feet from the safe, boss. Thirty feet. Our guy’s definitely making his move.”

“Good. Stay with him.”

He glances around the room again but it’s dull, dull, _dull._ Jim slips out through the dining room doors, hoping to find a quiet spot to entertain himself until their work is done. He doesn’t want to head upstairs where Sebastian and the thief are, so he takes a right and follows the hall to a sweet little parlour with some comfy chairs and a nice antique coffee table. A man’s legs hang over the edge of the couch and Jim wonders if someone else is working this event. He walks around to look at the face and grins.

“Sherly! I thought you hated this sort of thing.”

The detective turns soulful but blank eyes on him and Jim almost gasps. He’s beautiful, a sort of wanton look about his pouty expression. He takes a moment to recognise Jim and even when he does his only reaction is a slight smile. The criminal closes the doors behind him so they won’t be interrupted.

“Did you find it dreary too? What a lot of fussy old plastic surgery addicts and bitchy MPs.”

Sherlock still doesn’t speak but he does sit up, eyes following Jim’s progress around the room. Moriarty looks him over, puzzled, before laughing.

“Naughty, naughty! What would big brother think of you falling off the wagon?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“Maybe I should call him then – seems the right thing to do.”

Sherlock’s lip curls and it’s pure sex. “When have you ever been concerned with the right thing?”

“Point taken.”

Jim crosses to sit on the coffee table where he can get a better look. Sebastian’s voice crackles in his ear.

“He’s got it.”

“Good, good.”

“Is it?” Sherlock tilts his head, and Jim can’t tell if he knows about the job or not.

“Did you come to stop me, Sherly, or is this a social call?”

“Neither.”

“Neither?”

“I was in the area.”

“For?”

“Fun.”

“Then I’m sure you’re disappointed here.”

“Maybe not.”

 

It’s all the warning he gets before Holmes knocks him flat against the table, dropping into his lap as his hand fists in Jim’s short hair. He kisses the criminal hard, lips punishing as he rubs his groin against Jim’s.

“Oh, frisky tonight? I’m flattered.”

He responds eagerly, revelling in this glimpse behind Sherlock’s mask. The detective doesn’t waste any time undoing Jim’s pants, his hand delving in before the criminal’s even hard. Long fingers wrap around his length and Jim swears with a giggle.

“Well hello Mr Sex.”

“Shut up, Jimmy.”

He growls and bites Sherlock’s neck to remind him who he’s dealing with but allows it, head knocking back against the table as Sherlock strokes him. Sherlock slides backwards to kneel between his legs, tugging Jim’s pants down with more than a few rips until he can get the underwear down too. He swoops onto Jim’s erection, taking the man deep and sucking with an energy that contradicts the lazy pose he’d been in when Jim found him. The psychopath snickers.

“Such a good boy for Daddy tonight, Sherly. Maybe we should do this more often.”

He’s cut off by a groan as Sherlock flicks his tongue over the head, nails digging into his shaggy brown scalp as Jim encourages his movements. He’s still giggling under his breath between the moans, raking his fingers over Sherlock’s cheek in a vicious scratch. The detective only scowls and drags his teeth and Jim laughs harder.

“Boss, security got him by the back door. We need to bail.”

“Not noooow Sebby dear.” Jim sings, pushing Sherlock’s head down again.

“Where are you?”

“Busy!” he snaps.

Sherlock’s lips pop free of his cock. “I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

“Not at all darling.”

He twirls his tongue along the ridge of his shaft and Jim coos, completely indifferent to how loud it is. Sebastian pants through the comm link.

“We need to go Jim…”

“Fuck off or I’ll strangle you myself!”

Sherlock quirks a brow but keep sucking. Jim’s close, laughing even harder as Sherlock bobs like a woodpecker, slurping and smirking and sucking obscenely. The parlour door opens and Sebastian stops, stunned.

“SEBASTIAN!” Jim screams, glaring at him.

“Jim, we need to leave. Now.”

Sherlock’s stopped, and Jim’s considering just fucking his mouth the rest of the way, but Sebastian has that look in his eyes like he might throw Jim over his shoulder if he doesn’t obey and they really don’t need to be caught out today. He gives a strained growl and pushes Sherlock away, zipping himself up stiffly.

“Fine, but as punishment you get to finish me off in the car.”

Sebastian’s face droops unhappily but he jerks his head. “Boss.”

“Coming! God,” he runs a thumb over Sherlock’s lips, “To be continued honey.”

The men sweep out, leaving Sherlock to loll back on the couch, barely aware they were there at all.

 

**+1**

Thanks to John’s warning Mycroft has a fair idea what to expect when he opens his office door. It still hurts when he sees his brother leaning against the door with that stupid goofy smile.

“Mikeyyy.”

“For God’s sake get inside before someone sees you – though I suppose it’s a bit late for that now.”

He shoots a look at Anthea and she leans in, voice low. “Only people who saw him were on the front desk, and I did the talking for him.”

“Excellent. Thanks you, Anthea, I’ll take it from here.”

She leaves them to it. Mycroft grabs his brother by the elbow and guides him inside, locking the door behind him.

“Now, sit.” He shoves the younger Holmes towards a chair. He seems content enough to obey, crossing his legs idly. He’s not wearing shoes.

Mycroft goes to make himself a drink, using the time to gather his thoughts and calm himself. Seeing Sherlock like this is as bad as it was years ago, that slight helplessness, that slight feeling of failure. He empties his scotch in one hit and crosses to sit opposite Sherlock. His head hangs back heavily, gaze locked on the ceiling.

“What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I’m bored.”

“I gave you a perfectly good case last week.”

“Dull! Ordinary!” Sherlock moans.

“You cannot do this again. I won’t allow it.”

“What will you do, pack me off to rehab? Again.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s head rolls forward, looking at Mycroft with the usual petty resentment. His expression changes with a flutter though, eyes dragging over his brother. He smiles.

“You can’t send me away. You’d miss me.”

“I could do my own legwork for a few weeks. I’m sure Dr Watson would oblige me.”

“He’s not what you want. You’re Mycroft Holmes – you want the best.”

“I’m not sure this qualifies.”

Sherlock bites his tongue cheekily and Mycroft sighs internally. He won’t get through to Sherlock until the drug wears off.

“How much?”

“Oh I tried something different tonight, Mikey. Something a bit more extreme.”

Mycroft feels even more apprehensive, but he has to know. “How much?”

“Enough.”

 

Sherlock climbs out of the chair in one move like a panther, slinking across the floor on his hands and knees. He runs the hands up Mycroft’s legs, resting them on his thighs. Mycroft’s used to this; the dreamy state has always brought out Sherlock’s need to touch. He can handle it if he stays calm and gives no sign he’s noticed.

“You can stay here tonight and tomorrow I’ll drive you up to the facility myself.”

“My cases?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade can handle them well enough for a time.”

“John?”

“I dare say he’ll enjoy the break.”

“You?” he looks up through his lashes coyly.

“We’ve covered that, Sherlock.”

“You neeeed me Mikey.”

“And yet, I seem to get by.”

Sherlock drops his head, mouthing up Mycroft’s inner thigh towards his crotch. Mycroft puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes away.

“Stop that.”

“Why? Why does everyone keep denying me any kind of inspiration?”

“Because this isn’t you, Sherlock. You wouldn’t want this, not to mention the other obstacles.”

Sherlock runs his hand up the seam in Mycroft’s pants, stopping at his groin.

“What obstacles?”

“You’re my little brother, Sherlock. I don’t want this from you.”

“Then who do you want it from?”

Mycroft’s hands twitch on the arms of the chair. It’s true he hasn’t had anyone in years, but between the confidential and dangerous nature of his work and the long office hours, he hasn’t really bothered to try. That doesn’t mean he’ll take up Sherlock’s offer though. His sly touches have no effect on the statesman, given their source.

“I’m afraid you’re out of arguments, Sherlock. Go back to your chair and we’ll talk.”

His brother scowls. “Come on Mikey. One kiss and you’ll be begging for it.”

“No.”

He can see Sherlock’s going to try anyway, and he readies himself to repel the attack. Sure enough the detective propels himself into Mycroft’s lap, plunging towards his mouth. He brings his hands up to grab Sherlock’s shoulders and stop him, and then something hits his thigh with a spike of pain.

“What the devil…” Mycroft looks down. There’s a syringe sticking through his pants, Sherlock’s thumb on the plunger.

“Relax, Mikey. I just wanted you to loosen up.”

“My god, what have you done?” Mycroft whispers, searching his brother’s face. Sherlock looks calm, licking his lips as his other hand strokes his brother’s neck.

 

The drug, whatever it is (and Mycroft suspects heroin or morphine with a sudden alarm) spreads quickly. His limbs feel loose but not weak, as if the things he touches take longer to process in his head. His face slackens into an almost gasp as he feels the tingle through his nerves. Sherlock smiles as he watches the change, drawing the needle out gently and putting it aside.

“Isn’t that better?”

Mycroft’s hands drop from his shoulders absentmindedly, and with his freedom to wander again Sherlock rubs himself up and down Mycroft’s wool-clad thighs. His brother inhales shakily at the sensation, the merest friction like a string of stars through his body. Sherlock tilts his head down and kisses him, and his mouth is so lush and pillowy Mycroft can’t help a groan. He wants more; he leans into the embrace, letting Sherlock nip at his lips and gasping like a school girl. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this; some voice deep in his mind whispers that it’s bad, but he can’t remember why.

Sherlock takes his hand and stands, and Mycroft feels bereft.

“Come along.”

“I shouldn’t” he says in a small voice.

“You must.”

He can’t argue with that tone. Sherlock leads him over to the desk and sits on the edge, pulling Mycroft flush against him with his tie.

“Am I pretty, Mikey?”

The name makes that cold voice stir again but the drug is too strong and Mycroft can’t hear it. He runs his hand up Sherlock’s back with a happy smile.

“Beautiful.”

“Do you want me?”

“Yes.” He does, goodness he does. The boy’s like a black angel, skin shimmering in the light. Mycroft’s almost afraid if he touches him too hard he’ll break.

Sherlock dispels that worry by jumping further back on the surface. He lays back and struggles to get his pants open, fingers too clumsy for the buttons. Mycroft wants to help but he’s frozen, thoughts floating along about something he can’t see. The detective eventually gets them off, propping his long legs on either side of Mycroft like long ivory towers. His knees form a graceful bridge. Mycroft’s eyes follow the arc down to the flesh standing to attention, if a little half-heartedly. He stirs, his own anatomy swelling in response to the lovely sluttish look on Sherlock’s face.

“Here.”

His brother leans forward to help him undress. Mycroft wonders idly why anyone would bother with this many layers. They peel off his jacket, his waistcoat, his tie and shirt. His belt follows and he toes off his shoes at Sherlock’s reminder. Then delicate fingers are unzipping him and Mycroft needs their heat, needs the warmth of something against him. He stands naked before Sherlock, waiting patiently, content to stand there and look all night if no one instructs him otherwise.

 

But the younger man wraps his legs around Mycroft’s waist and pulls, nudging him against the edge of the table. He strokes Mycroft and it’s so intense he can’t breathe or speak for a moment. Sherlock licks a finger and wiggles it into his entrance, eyes locked on Mycroft as his mouth falls open. He thrusts for a few seconds before spitting on his whole hand and moving up to two, scissoring them to stretch himself out. Mycroft can’t take his eyes off the hypnotic rhythm of his hands, the fingers disappearing inside over and over.

It’s not long though before Sherlock takes hold of him again and places his head against the puckered hole. Mycroft frowns. He knows this – this isn’t right.

“I’ll hurt you.” He says pleadingly.

“You won’t, you won’t, love.”

Sherlock sounds so sure, so wise. Mycroft follows his guiding hand and presses himself in. Sherlock grunts uncomfortably but when Mycroft looks up he’s smiling and the elder Holmes relaxes. He shoves a bit more and their thighs are flat against each other. Sherlock is like a blinding white pillar of heat, wrapped around him in a fiery caress. Mycroft breathes out a groan and Sherlock drags him down by the neck, kissing him and grunting as the angle forces Mycroft’s tip against his prostate.

They stay there like that for what feels like forever. Mycroft could swear the light changes around them as he kisses those soft lips, fingers running through tight, tangled curls. There’s nothing but the tight fit grasping him and the wet tongue squirming against his, and he feels like he’s the one being penetrated.

He shifts his weight onto his other hand and Sherlock gasps, muscles twinging. They stare at each other wide eyed, each remembering the connection. Mycroft thrusts agonisingly slowly, an experiment. Sherlock makes a noise of so much desire it sends a chill up his brother’s spine.

He speeds up with the encouragement but he’s doesn’t have the conscious thought to go faster. His strokes are solid, steady, but never hurried. He feels like he’s cracking something open, something delicate he wasn’t supposed to touch. Sherlock’s hands on his arms are reassuring, and he lowers his head to the other man’s chest and loses himself in the swing of his hips.

*****

Mycroft wakes up on a hard, cold floor and frowns. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool, but he never drinks enough to get hung over. It takes a long time to piece anything together, his usual powers of observation gone, along with his simple senses. He pulls himself upright and blinks. It’s his office. And he’s naked. And Sherlock’s naked next to him on the floor between the desk and the armchairs, shivering slightly from the cold.

Mycroft knows somewhere what’s happened as soon as he spots his brother, but his mind’s still winding up and he’s forced to go through the painful stages of figuring it out. The needle on the side table explains why his head is fuzzy; the scattered clothes and bites he can see all over both himself and Sherlock indicates he was swayed into something regrettable. In his heart he hopes it’s not as bad as it could be, but there’s a shiny dried patch of something on the back of Sherlock’s thighs and he knows it is. He glances at his desk and has a flashback of coming so hard he cried, and tears well up again. Mycroft is a monster, unworthy of any of the trust placed in him.

He dresses stiffly, body not pleased about a night on the floor. He’s tempted to leave his brother as is, to run away and send John for him, to hide in a hole somewhere. But he has to make this right (impossible, never, can’t be done – better then, at least). He drapes Sherlock’s coat over him loosely before shaking his shoulder.

“Sherly?”

“Hmm? Piss off Mycroft.” He mumbles.

Mycroft almost cries again.

“Wake up.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, now!”

The harsh pitch in his voice startles his brother awake, and Sherlock looks up worriedly. He takes one glance at the trembling of Mycroft’s lip and his eyes flick to the empty syringe. His own face closes off into hard, emotionless apathy.

“Ah.”

“Get dressed.”

He doesn’t complain, and Mycroft goes to the sideboard so he doesn’t have to watch. He doesn’t bother pouring, drinking straight from the decanter. He brings it with him to the car, completely unable to care what Anthea or his driver think of it. The two brothers settle into the back seat as far apart as possible, and they don’t speak again the entire way to the rehab centre. Sherlock stares out the window, resting his arm against the sill and his chin against his fist. Mycroft’s hands shake as he takes another swig.

He doesn’t get out of the car, letting the centre’s people come down to collect Sherlock. As he’s about to close the door he pauses.

“Will I see you when I get out?”

Mycroft looks over with wet eyes, lips feeling arid and cracked.

“I suppose so.”


End file.
